


Restaurant Dogs

by Jane St Clair (3jane)



Series: Restaurant Dogs [2]
Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-12
Updated: 2011-08-12
Packaged: 2017-10-22 13:10:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3jane/pseuds/Jane%20St%20Clair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sun's coming up / And I'm riding with<br/>Lady Luck / Freeway, cars and trucks / Stars beginning to fade...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Restaurant Dogs

Gunn's not a movie fanatic or anything -- considering what he  
does for a living, he hardly needs that kick of extra excitement  
that most people go looking for in Hollywood's dreck -- but he is  
fairly sure that this particular restaurant has appeared in at  
least one Quentin Tarantino movie.  Something about the sheer  
anonymity of it, about the waitresses' too-short polyester skirts  
and the very, very strong coffee.  If five white guys in black  
suits come in the door together, he's so out of here.

Which might leave Wesley a sitting duck, but Gunn's increasingly  
of the opinion that Wes can fend for himself, and probably the  
rest of them, too.  He hasn't slept yet, and neither has Gunn,  
but unlike Gunn, Wesley's luminously awake.  Brown eyes radiate  
the hard charge he's had since the spellcasting yesterday.  He's  
watchful, electric, almost too wired to sit still.  Chewing his  
omelette reflectively while the tip of his tongue does vaguely  
obscene things to the fork.

Gunn's happier just dealing with his second cup of the  
restaurant's very strong coffee.  Like if he drinks enough if it,  
he'll be able to pretend that he did sleep last night.  Instead  
of driving north with Wesley practically to the San Gabriels and  
then back.  Instead of leaning on the bike on a gravel pull-out  
by the highway and Wesley sucking him off.  Dangerous mouth  
around his flesh.  Wesley's eyes behind the egghead glasses dug  
under his skin, found every bone and tendon and muscle and stray  
thought in him in the time it took to slide Gunn's way-too-hard  
cock down Wesley's throat.  

Sometime in the midst of that, this huge goddamned semi ran by  
them.  Flare of halogen and a horn that shook all his bones out,  
and Wes didn't even slow down.  Just laughed up at him and  
skimmed the underside of Gunn's cock with his teeth.

Seven am now, and Gunn's caught somewhere between too exhausted  
and utterly wired.  Singing Tom Waits of all things, about the  
sun coming up, but in that voice that makes you suspect that it's  
all a trick of the streetlamps and in a minute the night is gonna  
come crashing down again.

Wesley says, "Um."  Stops.  So insanely British of him.  Fuck him  
for the bastard he is for sitting there like newly poured sex and  
still looking unbelievably prim.  He out-classes everyone in the  
room in spite of the ruined crease in his pants, the gravel  
ground into his knees, the semen-stain just visible next to his  
zipper.  English even in his leather jacket that now smells like  
both of their sweat, and diesel fuel, and smog and dirt and come.

"What?"

"I think they're coming."

Very helpful.  "Who?"

"Giles and Ethan."

And that's enough to make Gunn nervous, both because the  
ProtocolDroid!Wesley he's used to shouldn't just *know* things  
like that, and because Ethan Rayne makes his skin crawl, no two  
ways about it.

"How the hell do you know?"

"My skin itches."  Small crooked grin at Gunn, just like he knows  
what he's been thinking.  "Remind me to shower properly when I  
get home.  These runes are decidedly uncomfortable."

Gunn has the sudden, scary thought that if Wesley can track Giles  
and Rayne through the runes on his body, then Rayne can do the  
same for them.  And nearly crawls right out of his bones at the  
thought.  Because whatever else Rayne may be, he's powerful as  
fuck, and having him watch you feels a little too much like being  
out alone and unarmed in a city full of demons.

At which point Glasses and Weasel-man decide to join them, and  
Gunn gives even more thought to making himself scarce.  He can  
find Wes later; he knows where he lives.  Maybe help bath him.    
He made three of the runes marking Wesley's skin himself, and  
he's itchingly curious to know what condition they're in after  
twelve hours of wear.

"Good morning, Gunn."  Glasses.  Giles -- Englishman the way  
Wesley's an Englishman: prim, dressed stuffy, and debauched just  
under the surface.  This morning he has blood under his neatly  
trimmed fingernails, and since Giles isn't moving like it's his,  
Gunn has to wonder just whose blood *has* found it's way under  
those lily-white claws, exactly.

He's guessing Ethan Rayne's, because Rayne looks very happy, but  
like he's been ridden hard and put away wet.  Just a little  
stiffer than last night, and with a very secret smile sliding  
around the corners of his mouth.  Red on his teeth and a big  
bruise on his cheekbone.

Rayne spends a long time watching Gunn while Giles orders tea for  
both of them and peruses the single-sheet laminated menu.  Gunn  
wouldn't have guessed that this particular restaurant even served  
tea.  He wasn't convinced you could even get it in this part of  
the city.  Nothing tea-ish in this particular stretch of  
warehouse and industrial wasteland.  He associates tea with  
Englishness, but also with his Mom, who used to make it first  
thing in the morning and hang out the window with a cup of it,  
watching the sun rise in the million colours that smog brings.    
It smells like old crocheting and grown-woman perfume, which are  
two things he *definitely* doesn't want to admit he's ever been  
near.  But he'll tell Wesley about it sometime.

"I feel wonderful," Rayne tells the room at large.  "We should  
market you, Ripper.  The rest of us could retire rich and live  
like the Marquis de Sade on what we'd make off your services."

"Shut up, Ethan."  Pleasant, distracted, like he's said it a lot.

"How I am supposed to market your erotic skills if I'm not  
allowed to describe them?"

"I don't want you to, particularly.  This restaurant is full of  
large truck-driving men and other individuals whose activities  
are, I suspect, of a criminal but largely heterosexual nature.    
Either group will almost certainly take exception to your remarks  
eventually, and when they come over here, I'm giving you to them,  
to beat or molest as they choose."

At some point while the British are fighting, Gunn's acquired a  
shoeless foot in his lap, and the things it's doing to him are  
fairly interesting.  He glances down, just once, to make sure it  
isn't Rayne, molesting him for the sake of entropy, but the sock  
is one he's seen before.  Plain, black, just a little thin at the  
heel.  The foot underneath it, he remembers, has a lot of very  
delicate, interesting bones just under its surface.

So he sits back and drinks his coffee, stares at Wesley over the  
anonymous rim of his cup with Wesley looks blandly back, just as  
if he weren't all but jerking Gunn off with his toes.

He's arching back by the time the touch suddenly disappears, and  
Wesley wordlessly stands and excuses himself.  Walks towards the  
back and the washrooms, looking every bit the prissy, lost  
Englishman, and it's only when he *knows* only Gunn can see him  
that he gives that twist to his hips.

Ethan Rayne is looking at him.  Giles, whose glasses, Gunn  
notices, are distinctly dirty, studies the placemat and looks  
like he wishes the waitress would hurry up and bring his two soft  
eggs and toast.

He thinks about making an excuse, then says *fuck it* and just  
gets up.  Rayne slides the slick smile further up his face.  Gunn  
thinks hard about the various cruelties that he *knows* Giles  
inflicted on the man last night.

"Be back," is what he says.

The washrooms are down a short hall, and the door to the men's is  
locked.  Gunn lets his forehead fall against it, not hard.    
Whispers at the varnished wood, "Wesley I know you're in there.    
Wesley open up.  You're going to crawl out of your skin next time  
I touch you open the goddamn door."

Click.

Wesley's not at the door when Gunn pushes it open.  He's back  
across the one-room can, perched on the edge of the chipped sink.    
With his pants open and his shirt open and one hand wrapped  
around his already-hard cock.

"This is some secret English thing that you haven't told me about  
yet, isn't it?"

"Yes.  Well."  Small grin.  Soft.  

Gunn kisses that mouth, surprised that it tastes this good after  
the number of hours it's been free-ranging through Los Angeles  
country.  Pushes down, rubs their teeth together.  Gets treated  
to Wesley's dangerous little tongue snaking up between his lips  
and mapping the lines of his mouth.

He's already learned a lot of the body under him.  While they  
were still in the Hollywood Hills, Gunn had an hour of Wesley's  
nakedness while they dozed together, and in that time he managed  
to learn a few things.  The different textures of Wesley's  
nipples.  The lines along his ribs that make him gasp even when  
he's too drained to move.

He rubs a thumb hard against one or two of those places now.    
Thoroughly enjoys the feeling of Wesley squirming against him.    
Long, slinky, skinny body that still smells so fucking good.  
Slides his hand down, under the boxer-briefs, and finds the tiny  
hollow of Wes' hip, rubs there.  Wesley hisses.

One of these days, he's going to spend a lot of hours making  
Wesley crazy, but he'll do that when he's not exhausted, and  
Wesley's lying down, and they're not doing it in the one-room  
men's can of a particularly nameless eatery.  He slides down on  
his knees and wraps his mouth around Wesley's cock.

Surprised, because he hasn't done this before, on Wesley at  
least, and it's better than he remembers from the last time he  
went down on someone.  He doesn't remember the smell being so hot  
(hot, hot and utterly male and still somehow English -- he's  
going to have to find out what all he's smelling, but later), or  
the flesh tasting so good, or the cock resting so easily on his  
tongue.  Like it belongs there.  Like he could spend hours and  
hours sucking Wes' cock, listening to the man's half-muffled  
whimpers.

His fingers are up there, too, reaching into the warm, dark  
places of Wesley's body.  Holding his balls and rolling them  
between his fingers.  Rubbing the sac's base until the hips  
against his face buck convulsively.  Reaching back and stroking  
the very tight hole he finds.  While he isn't going to get there  
now (but isn't it an interesting thought?), it's on his calendar,  
and somehow he doesn't think Wesley's really going to object.

Gunn tilts his head back, opens his throat, and gets the head of  
Wesley's cock down past his gag reflex, and Wesley hisses so loud  
that Gunn's sure there's going to be a waitress in a minute  
pounding on the door and screaming for them to get out of there.    
He lays a slap of Wesley's hip, just to get his attention and let  
him know that he needs to shut up, then rubs the place with the  
heel of his hand, promises mentally to kiss Wesley there really  
thoroughly later, leave a hickey that'll last for days.  

Swallows once and Wesley comes, and between them there's still  
this faint charge from last night's spell, and when Gunn runs a  
hand up Wesley's ass to the small of his back, his fingers catch  
on the power lines in the rune and the shockwave that runs down  
through him is enough like orgasm that he isn't going to  
complain.

He only lets the cock slide out of his mouth when Wesley pulls  
together enough to start stroking the back of his head, and then  
kisses it before he tucks it away.  Another kiss on the grey  
cotton before he zips Wes' pants up for him.

He supposes they could leave one at a time, but somehow he  
doesn't think that'd be much more subtle, so he just follows  
Wesley back out.  Trucker sitting close to the washroom hallway  
glares over at them for a minute and mutters something.  Gunn  
grins back and watches the washed-out blue eyes slam back down to  
the tabletop, and stretches the grin wider, enjoying what a scary  
black bastard he can be, even with damp knees and semen at the  
corner of his mouth.

At the table, Ethan Rayne grins at him, and Gunn grins back.    
He's figured out by now that Weasel-man was watching them through  
whatever magical-type connection was forged last night, but he  
can't quite bring himself to care.  He notices that Wesley  
doesn't look at Rayne, and files that information way for future  
reference.  Something about a senior wizard, or maybe just Rayne  
getting under his skin.

Probably the latter, because it is, in spite of the debauchery,  
still Wesley, and he's working on a pretty good blush.  Gunn's  
wondering whether Wes did in fact plan that little scene, or  
whether he was just surprised enough to go with it.  Isn't sure  
it matters, at this stage.  Once they've both had ten hours  
sleep, Angel will only just be waking up, and things are going to  
look a lot saner.  He's thinking about a shower, and cold sheets,  
and the edge of magic that follows Wesley around even in the  
rapidly hardening light.  

Both of them crawling through the city on Wesley's motorcycle,  
moving towards that.


End file.
